The Tears / The Magic Numbers - London Astoria - 17/2/05
2/5
By: JJ Florio
The living and breathing appeal of music seems to have remained unchanged by the passing of centuries. Since the caveman first bashed his club against a hollow trunk and exclaimed the immortal words, 'F**k, that sounds good!' the potency with which music has to fuse itself to our very beings seems as relevant and pertinent today as it has ever been.
What seems to have changed more recently though, is the manner in which it is used and ultimately, presented to us. Its pure sonic power has been realised and exploited by today's haplessly consumerist society to inform, persuade and sell to us with an alarming degree of success... Ever been in the supermarket, seen a product on the shelf and simultaneously had the jingle pop into your head? And since the hippy idealism that the Woodstock era gave us, the age of corporate musical innocence has long since past, with summer festivals, music venues and now even busking on the tube being stark testimonies to the sheer marketing power that an association with good music can bring. At this point, we have to seriously question the effect that this exploitation is having on the experience of our art.
On to the Astoria, and with vulgar multi-sensory sponsor-led product placement aside, we'd like to apologise wholeheartedly and unreservedly to Nine Black Alps, who we missed, and to Dead 60s, whose last chord we only caught due to our soft drink sponsored taxi being caught in a commercial radio drive-time endorsed traffic-jam. Sorry boys; word was you rocked.
After a short interlude and a few venue-approved beers, The Magic Numbers graced the stage. Ah, The Numbers. What better band to ease us into a headline slot than them. Blending effortlessly realised, genius songwriting (sens)abilities with a sense of harmony so luscious in composition, that they could surely melt the chilliest of hearts from a hundred paces with a single guitar stroke.
With an endless supply of charisma, The Magic Numbers, led by the constantly joyous presence of lead-singer Romeo, treated us to a master class of song craft, shifting skilfully between beautifully moody verses to the most irresistibly contagious choruses. The very sound seemed to soar higher and wider than that of the physical parameters of the venue itself. If there is a current band that is more charming than this, then we have yet to see them. And who could not fail to be moved or silenced by such a selfless display of artistic commitment? Well, quite a few people actually, which moves us on nicely to rant #2: Balding estate agent types at gigs.
I don't know where these folk materialise from, or quite what they're doing at such events, but who, I ask you who?, turns round to a similarly shiny-headed companion during one of the most delicate and subtle moments of a great band to loudly discuss the fluctuating housing market of East-Sheen? Behaviour like this is wholly unacceptable and should result in the perpetrators being bound, gagged and then dragged swiftly over uneven ground from the back of their Ford Mondeos.
And yet the band played sweetly on to all those in the building that understand the difference between Dylan and Dido. Thank you Magic Numbers; we were listening.
So to the main event: The Tears. This night was simply dripping in history and, for the many that had cut their indie teeth to Suede in the early 90's, expectation. Since parting company in a whirlwind of cocaine and high octane egos after the classic 'Dog Man Star' record, tonight saw the reunification of ex-Suede frontman Brett Anderson and estranged virtuoso guitarist Bernard Bulter, together on stage for their first (big) set of gigs in ten years. Having not heard any, as yet, released material from The Tears; we were all waiting in elated anticipation. Even the Mondeo men managed to abandon their house-price banter to pay silent homage to what was taking place.
And as the lights went dim on a hushed Astoria, we waited. Shortly, Brett Anderson took to the stage amid a flurry of cheers. With no sign of Bernard as yet, and with the simple accompaniment of a lone piano, the gig started (but never really began) with the slow and bizarrely brooding opener, 'Waves'. As the song came to an un-climactic end, the moment was greeted by a loud heckle of 'RUBBISH' by a particularly underwhelmed audience member. That's certainly one way of putting it.
As Bernard and the rest of the five-piece band sauntered into view, we, like everyone else there, hoped that this first number was not to be a limp stylistic premonition of what was to come, but - as the band started - the truth soon reared its very ugly head.
Although all of the Anderson/Butler trademarks were present, the Bowie/Ronson-esc partnership that helped to define timeless tracks such as 'Moving' and 'Animal Nitrate', the rest of the gig was lost through the sentimental tears and regretful ears of an early Suede fan. Brett Anderson is still a captivating performer, Bernard Butler a great guitar player, but something has happened in the midst of this renewed partnership that lacks any of the urgency or sheer excitement that helped to define their earlier careers. It's as if they've built a shrine to their formative years, a temple which Suede fans are asked to make a musical pilgrimage to, to worship at the remains of what was. Against a current backdrop of the truly giving artistry of Mike Skinner, Jack White and, hell, The Magic Numbers this felt like a demand too far. The Tears are for the absolute die-hards only; former indie boys turned estate agents that want to live out their former glories, safe within the embrace of this 'cool', endorsed event.
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